Her arrival came as no surprise. Somewhere between the space of her body and her other body, is the void—a rupture—but probably more a schism within space, time, sound, light. She is the mirror of all mirrors, reflecting herself onto the surface of every other surface. Her skin. My skin. She is my skin, I am her skin. We are both. She is the inversion of herself, her flesh made gleaming and her flesh made real, placed into this world. No, she fell onto this world, the word made flesh, incarnate and real, stepping through the void and onto the earth. She steps over herself, into herself, onto herself. She is the mirage and the open-scar of all before her, and all after her. She is the first and the last.
She is my fever-dream, the hallucination standing in the darkness outside my window, my desire looking back at me, stepping around and over and on me. Circling me, watching, possessing me. I am her possession, her gift to this world, the thing she leaves behind long after she is gone, the thing that appeared once in my memory, or maybe I read about it, about her, before she was, maybe I saw her, like a speck caught in my eye, seeing her through my tears, and then gone, before she arrived.
